Dragons
by Misaia
Summary: For lack of anyone better to talk to, Loki reads to his newfound friend about the brave knights in clear plastic bags once a week that valiantly fight the black dragons roaming madly through his body, chomping at anything that looked particularly healthy. Crosspost from AO3. AU College/University


Written to Live to Tell the Tale: Passion Pit

* * *

Loki's twenty-first is spent with the scent of alcohol sharp and stinging in his nostrils, burning the corners of his eyes, surrounded by his brother and his friends.

Never mind that the nurse had spilled rubbing alcohol all over the bedside table and was hastily trying to clean it up with a wet cloth. Never mind that there wasn't any loud, crappy techno music making the walls pulsate with every beat. If you ignored the loud, insistent beeping of the machines by his bed, you could almost pretend that you were outside in the chilly winter day, letting the frost press burning kisses to your exposed skin.

He likes the winter. The frost reminds him of freedom and happy memories, tracing pudgy patterns into the windows of his childhood home and laughing with his brother in delight when they remained there until the spring sunlight came out to kiss it goodbye.

His brother tells him everything that is happening at university; who's been seducing the professors for just two more percent, who's been caught drinking underage, who's gotten together and broken up for the third time. Thor and his friends bring him a cake he cannot force himself to eat, give him a soft teddy bear. That was probably because they had no idea what else to give to make him feel better. Loki appreciates the effort, but he can tell they are wearing thin and it is difficult for them to pretend this is just another birthday celebration when all they can worry about is finals and whether or not he can make it to next term.

When it is time to leave, they hug him goodbye carefully, and he wonders if they are afraid to get too close; afraid the emptiness inside him would seize them by surprise if they weren't careful, tearing out their hair and rubbing away the sparks of vitality in their cheeks.

He eyes the teddy bear, ivory fur soft and silky, its button eyes staring into the corner of the room. The only friend he has left.

"Excuse me," he says to the nurse the next time she comes in to check his vitals. "Might I have a notepad and a pen?"

The nurse obliges readily. She too has tired of watching Loki stare listlessly out the window at the holiday festivities below and is glad for any diversion she can provide.

As the last jolly moments of December fade away, Loki writes until his hand cramps. For lack of anyone better to talk to, he reads to his newfound friend about the brave knights in the clear plastic bags once a week that valiantly fight the black dragons roaming madly through his body, chomping at anything that looked particularly delicious. He tells him - for he has decided it is a him - about the noble lords and ladies that wear bright colours and live in circular homes, and how they traverse through his blood looking for adventure. He hugs him to his heart and whispers in his ear how the lords and ladies hold great hunting parties throughout his chest and sometimes accidentally prick him with their tiny swords and arrows; he tells the small bear that this often reminds him of Thor, how his brother can appear to take up all the air in the room and make it hard to find his voice. The teddy listens to him without complaint, and does not even look particularly upset when he rubs over his head with the side of an inky hand and smears black all over his white coat.

His stoic expression remains the same as January melts into February, as February shudders reluctantly into March with the trilling of robins and the first breath of spring.

The nurse, looking more tired and careworn than before, comes in to tidy up Loki's room and change the sheets. Not Loki's room, she reminds herself again. Room 309. Not Loki's room. The teddy looks on solemnly as she opens the bedside table drawer and pulls out the notepad, its pages filled with scrawls of messy print-cursive whose letters get progressively larger as the pages go by.

He watches the nurse as she sits down on the edge of the bed, and reads about the dragons.


End file.
